Jazz in the Blood
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: Being a creature of the night was more than avoiding the sun – it was the constant desire for more blood, wine, music, sex – whatever the vice of the night happened to be. What Harvey was could be characterized by one word – insatiable. There is one vice he lets himself indulge on - Jazz. And that's where he discovers a young musician with bright blue eyes and siren blood.


The prompt I was given was "orchestra player/pianist and concertgoer AU MARVEY" and I couldn't decide how I wanted to do it (I may redo the prompt sometime, who knows?) and then I got this idea for vampire!Harvey and ran with it and it... meets the requirements... kinda?

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><p>Everything is Blood. Everything is red and wet and pulsing and pooling and sticking to his hands, his neck, his knees, his mouth. His mouth. He can taste it, the copper and the iron and the potassium, and he can't remember a time before the blood. He's covered in it, soaked with it, but he's hungry for more. More blood. More gore. The world is dark and red and he can't discern what's flesh and what's metal in this city anymore. He just needs more blood. More. Somewhere there's more. There's someone nearby full of blood. He can hear it rushing in their veins. He can hear-<p>

"Harvey-"

The sound of the name, ghostly in the night, draws him up short. The voice is familiar too, and for a moment he can recall a time before the world was disfigured as it was now. He remembered... evening sunlight filtering in through the windows of the Manhattan Jazz Gallery and there, across the room, tuning and cleaning a saxophone, was a young, cool blooded young man sitting right under that dying light. There was so much noise going on as everyone buzzed with conversation, discussing the show about to start and the party to be held afterward down the street. As he watched the going ons of the patrons, the young man was approached multiple times and always smiled and laughed and wished others good luck but he never left his spot. Oh, even across the room, the young man's blood was music, swelling as it beckoned _him_ over, becoming harder and harder to ignore until-

"Playing tonight?" he asked, standing outside the light of the sky and under the ceiling lights instead. "First time?"

The young man looked up in surprise, a polite smile on his face. His eyes were the most brilliant blue, unusual for a brunette.

"Yeah." His voice was soft, surprised almost, as though he hadn't expected to be approached despite having been approached all night. His hand extended for a shake, long fingers reaching out to the stranger. "Hi, I'm Mike. You're first time too?"

"No." He did not take the offered hand, although he most certainly desired to. But the light coating it would give away all his secrets, and he couldn't have that. After a brief hesitation, the hand was withdrawn and rubbed awkwardly on Mike's pant leg. "I'm a donor."

"Oh! Musician?" Mike asked, perking up again after his brief deflation.

This time he laughed before dashing Mike's dreams. "Ah no. My father was quite proficient, but I'm just a fan." He inclined his head toward Mike in lieu of the handshake. "Harvey."

"Well, _Harvey_," Mike said, stressing the name, "Pleasure to meet a fan. I hope you like the show tonight."

"I believe I will." Harvey did his best to put a purr on the prediction, and by the sound of Mike's blood and the smell of his skin, Harvey had succeeded.

The show was spectacular – everything a Jazz band should be in the best non-profit jazz club in town. Harvey wasn't lying about being a fan – he really did enjoy jazz music, loved it really. The tempo, the soul, the life in the music was intoxicating and he absorbed every moment of the show. Perhaps too often he stared at Mike, who was playing passionately beside the others, but a little staring wasn't going to injure Mike or anyone else.

The after party wasn't technically Jazz Gallery related, but one of the donors had decided to rent a space to celebrate something or other and so there was a party with just about everyone from the Gallery and Harvey wasn't about to avoid it. A donor like Harvey, who invested so often in the Gallery, was expected to attend. And even if that hadn't been the case, the night was young and he was itching to find some entertainment for the shadows.

Being a creature of the night was more difficult than people gave it credit for, really. It was more than avoiding the sun – it was the constant desire for more, for more blood, more wine, more music, more sex – whatever the vice of the night happened to be.

What Harvey was could be characterized by one word – insatiable.

He avoided the pull of desires as often as he could, secluding himself from relationships, avoiding locations typically involved with socializing or entertainment, and keeping himself busy with his job as a lawyer. But Jazz, that was the one thing he let himself have any night he wanted, and the Jazz Gallery was one of his favorite haunts when the records at his home wouldn't satisfy him.

The party was filled with regulars from the Gallery as well as a few fresh faces. Harvey could smell rather than see the musicians mixed into the crowded room – their bodies still sweaty from the exhilaration and the heat of the stage lights and their hands tinted with the scents of their instruments. It was a thrumming, easy atmosphere in the cocktail bar and Harvey found it simple to blend in, relax, and forget his desires, since he was already satiated from the performances and the lingering reminder of it in the scent of the musicians,... until the chair three down from him was taken by the cool smelling siren blood from the Jazz Gallery lobby.

"Michael," he greeted without really looking up.

"It's Mike," the musician corrected and ordered himself a Wisconsin Belgian Red. As the bartender grabbed the bottle, Mike dug into the pocket of his jeans for his money, but Harvey was faster and he slid his card toward the transaction.

"My treat," he said, eyeing the bartender until the woman shrugged and accepted it, then he slid his eyes to Mike. "You put on a good show tonight. Let me buy you the one drink."

He could hear Mike's muscles twitching, his blood bumping, could smell the indecision on him, but as they locked eyes, Mike's heart slowed and he didn't even argue as Harvey had expected, had kind of hoped he would.

When the bartender came back with Mike's glass, the younger man pointed at Harvey's drink. "What's he got?" he asked.

"Old Fashioned," she said with a knowing grin. Mike smiled easily back and Harvey found himself swallowing the rest of his drink too quickly as he fought the tug in his stomach that it caused. Mike shouldn't smile like that – it made Harvey hungry.

"Looks like he needs a new one. On me," Mike explained and handed over a small pile of ones to cover the charge. "Keep the change. I have enough pennies, you know?"

"Sure thing. Thanks." The girl continued to smile at Mike and ignore Harvey, as though Mike were the seductive night creature and not a perfect example of a day walker.

Well, Mike was smooth, that was for sure. Harvey chuckled as his drink was presented to him and his old cup removed. "Nicely done," he complimented.

Mike just shrugged as though he did that sort of thing on a regular basis. The bartender tapped the glass in front of the musician and poured his bottle of Belgian Red into it – all dark garnet with just a finger of foam on top. To another lawyer, it might look like wine with a strange cream on top. To Harvey it looked like candied blood, because even the texture was denser than other beers. If not for the strong scent of cherries, yeast, and malt, he might have questioned the beverage. Still, watching Mike drink it did not help the pull in Harvey's gut.

Candy blood touched Mike's lips and sealed the musician's fate. Harvey could not, would not resist the pull. He'd come looking for someone to lure away, someone to fill his hunger, and Mike fit every requirement – good looks, sweet smelling blood, no real friends or family that Harvey had noticed during the night, and he was already past tipsy and had lowered inhibitions.

As Mike lowered his glass for the third time, he caught Harvey staring and they swallowed simultaneously. Mike's throat still held that pale remnant of sweat. His body was still filled with adrenaline, and the look in his eyes backed up Harvey's knowledge that that Belgian Red was not his first drink of the night.

"A fan was it?" Mike asked, and he still hadn't looked away from Harvey.

"A huge one," Harvey responded, lifting his short glass to his lips and watching Mike over the rim. His stomach urged him onward and he shifted to face his body toward Mike, no one between them. Mike unconsciously imitated him and took a nervous gulp of his beer. Harvey slid a hand down his own thigh, watching as Mike's eyes flickered to it and then back. The sound of a racing heart was glorious when you were the cause.

Abruptly turning away, Mike chugged the rest of his beer and slipped off his chair, Harvey's eyes on him the whole time even as the lawyer's body faced the bar again. Leaving the counter, Mike maneuvered through the crowd and into the family restroom instead of the men's room. Harvey smiled to himself and calmly downed the rest of his drink, dropped a nice tip on the bar under his glass, and walked toward the restroom.

When he got to the three path split, he pretended to consider the men's room as he listened to Mike's heart. In the privacy of the family restroom, he was certainly not going to the toilet but was instead facing the door, waiting. Harvey smirked. He shouldn't keep Mike in suspense. The boy's scent was intoxicating as it was. Anymore nerves would spoil it.

Ever calm, Harvey tried the handle he knew would be unlocked and stepped into the room. As soon as he was through, Mike was pushing the door shut behind him and locking it. Then he was pressing his lips to Harvey's, not caring, as many young folk do not, that he didn't even know who Harvey was. Serial killer or phenomenal lover, Mike was willing to give himself over, and Harvey was willing to accept.

As Mike's first assault died down due to Harvey's stoic response and uncertainty started to creep in to Mike's movements, Harvey steeled himself and leaned in. He captured Mikes lips, then he forced his way into Mike's mouth, tasting every inch invaded by the sweet cherries of his beer. His fingers caressed Mike's neck, rolled over his Adam's apple, and began to make their ways down Mike's chest until they came to the hem of his shirt and started to sneak back up.

Mike's hands were in Harvey's hair, tugging up on Harvey's collared shirt temporarily before retreating back to the head until one rebelled and ran down over Harvey's chest. Harvey sucked up every gasping breath that escaped Mike's lips and hungered for the chemicals currently racing through Mike's body. The blood flow was intense, whistling to Harvey as it flew, and he wanted to taste it. He needed to taste it. Mike was offering it up on a silver platter, and it was filled with so much hormonal desire that Harvey almost couldn't concentrate on finishing the warm up.

Harvey broke the make-out session to kiss and nip down Mike's jaw and to his throat. As he licked the other's jugular, he heard a soft moan and knew that necks were a thing for Mike. Unfortunately, really, that the same happened to be true for Harvey. He could feel the blood beneath the surface, could smell it, was so close to tasting it.

Hands groped at Harvey's belt, at his crotch, and now it was Harvey's turn to moan. Caught up in the rush of his desires, he'd forgotten to watch for Mike's hands, to keep them above the waist, but now he pulled Mike's hands away by the wrists and pin them above his head as he pressed Mike against the wall.

"Was a little worried I was the only one really into this," Mike admitted around a pant, eyes cloudy with drink and hormones, and Harvey found himself temporarily distracted by those eyes.

He pressed a firm kiss to Mike's lips, which the other chased when it was gone. "Don't worry," he said and surprised himself. He'd never said that to someone he desired before. Mostly because they had every reason to worry.

Trying to return to the task at hand, Harvey pressed his lips to Mike's Adam's apple and then sucked on the base of his jugular, drawing the blood closer to the surface and creating a hickey. Mike moaned and bit his lip to muffle himself. His hands clenched in Harvey's grip but he had no chance of breaking free. Harvey felt his teeth sharpen, prepared to puncture Mike's skin and turn him into a tasty snack, but then Mike was rolling his hips against Harvey's, using the limited mobility Harvey had granted him. Harvey dropped his forehead onto Mike's shoulder as he moaned this time.

How many times had he done this – singled out someone who seemed distant from the crowd, mildly secluded, and lured them into privacy to excite their blood before spoiling that evening by drinking his fill of them? How often had his seductive bite kept his prey from crying out even as they died? How many times over the last century – really, he should be perfect at this. But, as Mike humped him, rising off the wall skillfully, Harvey realized he could not remember the last time he'd given in to a completely different form of desire.

"Damn it all," he huffed and lifted his head to stare into Mike's hungry eyes. Hungry like Harvey.

Releasing Mike's arms, Harvey undid his own belt as Mike unbuttoned his own jeans and then both of their pants were down. Mike reached for Harvey's newly exposed skin, but Harvey couldn't risk those hands on him again and quickly flipped Mike around to face the wall.

"God, I haven't been manhandled like this since... I can't remember ever being manhandled like this," Mike said, seeming surprised, but the shift in his hormones screamed loud and clear that he was enjoying the treatment.

"Get used to it," Harvey purred in his ear, and he really shouldn't have since he planned to drain all the blood from Mike as soon as they were finished.

"I'd like that," Mike admitted with a moan as Harvey reached around him and began to stroke him.

Blood clouded Harvey's vision as the memory faded and he hissed at the loss. A steamy interlude in a public restroom had satiated Harvey's lust for the night and he'd, unbelievably, let his prey return home alive. He remembered that and felt anger in his stomach. He wanted blood now. He needed blood, and remembering how he'd let the most delicious smelling blood in half a century walk away made him furious. He needed that blood!

He tried to breathe deep, to hunt that blood as he'd done so often for prey in the past, but his nose was filled with the stink of stale blood and of living blood filled with tar and smoke. He couldn't find that sweet blood. Sweet, sweet blood. Siren's blood. He wanted it. He wanted it!

He noticed, vaguely surprised, that his hands were clenched around a dead man's throat, and he hissed as he threw the body away from himself. The alley was red, and for reasons besides Harvey's inability to see any other color. With the body away from him, he tried to hunt once more, and he thought for a moment that he had it – could smell the jazz filled blood and – but then he lost it. Car exhaust made him gag.

More animal than man, he grabbed at a different body laying in the street and heard the pale sense of a heart beat still present. Blood still fresh. Without thinking, he sank his teeth into the man's neck, receiving no fight from his prey. No fight. No-

Mike was different. Mike was a fighter, not just a lover, and Harvey would know. In the three months following that first performance, he'd seen Mike at five more Jazz Gallery events, and after each one, they found themselves somewhere secluded – a cheap hotel, an empty conveniently sound proof practice room at the Gallery, anywhere they could find – and had sex until both were so satiated that neither wanted anything else. Each night, Mike continued to live, and Harvey continued to wonder why.

That blood was so precious, so beautiful, and he sometimes ached for it in the day, and yet he couldn't bring himself to ever drink from Mike. Each and every time he got Mike alone, he thought it would be the day he finally ended the charade and put his teeth into that neck, and every time he got distracted by those eyes, by those hands, and he ended up naked instead of killing Mike.

On their fifth night together, he ended up back at Mike's apartment and was torn between two emotions about it. On one hand, it was a terrible decision on Mike's part. Letting someone like Harvey know where they could find you, uninhibited and vulnerable, was a terrible idea. The anticipation of what he could do with such knowledge bristled under Harvey's skin and he had to stifle the excitement. On the other hand, it was kind of a dump and the neighborhood wasn't the best, and he found himself wanting to take Mike to his condo and away from that place. It was an odd kind of protectiveness he'd never experienced before, but he couldn't shake the desire and the thoughts that came with it – that Mike was his and his alone and he needed to be kept safe and happy.

Before sex that night, Mike set up to play music for Harvey. He sat on the couch and winked at Harvey before beginning to play on his saxophone. He didn't get through two songs before Harvey was leaning over him and gently moving the instrument away so he could kiss Mike.

Jazz was his chosen vice and Mike knew just how to play it. Mike, he noted that night, was also a chosen vice – for companionship and not for consumption. Mike had jazz in his veins, the sweet taste of wood on his lips from the saxophone, and the scent that radiated off him when he was horny was like heroin for Harvey. He'd slept with many people over the years, lured plenty to their deaths with the promise of sex, but he could remember no one who smelled or loved like Mike did.

"I want to know," he said in a breath as he covered Mike on the couch and kissed his cheekbones.

"Want to know what?" Mike asked, pushing Harvey's button-up shirt back off his shoulders.

"Everything." Harvey stopped, one arm free, and looked seriously into Mike's eyes. "I want to know everything about you, Mike. Like why-" He pursed his lips, thinking of all the times they'd been together and how easy it was to escape people. "Why are you always alone?"

"Killing the mood," Mike warned with a teasing smile.

"I'm serious." Harvey propped himself up, discarding his shirt, and held Mike's gaze until the younger man broke and looked away.

He shifted uncomfortably under Harvey and shook his head. The hard pumping of his heart had less to do with being horny and more to do with emotional distress, and Harvey found himself worried about it.

"Sorry. Not a fun topic, I gather," he said and leaned down to kiss Mike's exposed chest. "Forget I asked."

"My parents died when I was eight," Mike admitted, hand finding the back of Harvey's head as the other continued pressing slow kisses along his skin. "My grandmother raised me... but she died last year."

"My condolences," Harvey said and stopping kissing long enough to take a deep breath of Mike's scent. It was all he could smell, all he could think about – Mike.

"My best friend is a drug dealer and I don't see him much since I started being serious about my music." Mike stopped and sucked in a hard breath as Harvey's kisses reached just below the top of his unbuttoned jeans. "He- He never really liked jazz."

"I love jazz," Harvey murmured and loved the way Mike's skin dotted with goose bumps under his breath.

Mike laughed. "Yeah I know. I didn't think you came to the Gallery just for the sex."

Harvey paused, slow beating heart going slower. He went to the Gallery for the music, but it wasn't a lie that he went every once in a blue moon to find someone to satisfy his hunger. True, he'd never gotten into bed with anyone from the Gallery until Mike, but it was also true that he wasn't always there strictly for the jazz.

"Oh my God, are you really coming just for the sex?" Mike asked at Harvey's hesitation. That drew a laugh from Harvey this time and he raised up to kiss Mike.

"No. Seeing you is just the bonus," he murmured and watched how Mike's bright eyes grew dark with dilated pupils.

Conversation over, he pulled Mike's jeans and underwear off and then resumed his trail of kissing. When he had kissed and licked down Mike's inner thighs, he went for the prize and took Mike in his mouth. Around the moaning and gibberish Mike let out, panted real words found a place.

"Me too," he whined, gripping at the couch and Harvey's head. "Me too. I want- I want to know- ah- everything."

Harvey rubbed himself through his less expensive slacks, his common choice for the Gallery, and moaned. Mike didn't know what he was asking, didn't know just how much of Harvey there was to know, how much no one truly wanted to know, but the words and the desire lacing each one struck Harvey to his soul – if he still had one. Because he wanted Mike to know. He wanted to tell Mike everything – about his family, about all the years he'd seen, all the places he'd been. He wanted to tell Mike how much his body called to Harvey, about what it did to him. He wanted to explain about the siren blood and then brightness of his eyes and how Harvey could smell him from four blocks away and it made him smile like... like being able to do that was completely normal and expected.

He wanted Mike to know, but he couldn't tell him. Not now. Not ever. But Mike's words, as meaningless as they could ever be, had meaning for Mike, and it stirred something in Harvey he'd long thought had died.

When Mike was spent, Harvey kissed his lips and listened to his tired panting. He pressed his lips to the base of Mike's left ear and smiled.

"Maybe one day," he whispered. "you'll know."

Mike would know because they couldn't keep this up without it coming to light, and then Mike would run and then Harvey would be forced to chase him and finally sink his teeth into Mike's skin and drain the life from-

Harvey dropped the now fully dead body with disgust. It had tasted like smog, and the memory had filled him with hope and utter disappointment. None of these bodies, none of this blood, was that sweet siren blood, but he knew it was close. The fumes of the city were trying to hide it from him, but it was nearby and he would find it. He had no choice but to find it. His instincts were screaming.

"Harvey?"

The voice again. He spun to find the source but the newly devoured blood pulsed in his ears and made it harder to pinpoint. The sky above was lightening, the sun slowly bringing light to the sky, and Harvey knew he had to find shelter indoors soon.

Burning was the issue – not at first. The first thing the sun would do was make his skin glow like white diamonds, bright and drawing the attention of anyone around him. Even inside, most businesses kept their windows open during the day, and he had to make sure to stand away from them or risk the direct light making his skin too perfect, too luminescent. In some situations, the slight glow gained him instant trust, or distrust, and could make business run smoother, but he always had to keep meetings brief or cover most of his skin or both. Many people thought he was a germaphobe or just really pretentious. Either conclusion worked for Harvey.

If the sunlight was too direct, like when Mike had offered his hand in greeting so long ago, the brilliant glow would darken into a tan, then quickly into something resembling a sunburn, and in full bright daylight, the skin would begin to burn and peel and smoke. There would be no salves to help, no flames either, and no one to explain the extreme blemishes if he happened to escape quickly enough into shadow. If anyone saw those reactions, he'd have no choice but to kill them, because no one ever reacted well to seeing a man burn when touched by sunlight.

Everyone in the alley was dead, but soon people would be coming to collect trash or to head to early morning jobs. Logically, Harvey needed to escape now, but his brain was filled with that voice, with the memory of the siren blood, and he had to find one or both before he could retreat or hide or... hide?

"You never want to go anywhere with me!" Mike screamed.

They were standing in his apartment and, unlike the first couple trips there, had not come from the Gallery. Six months in and Harvey found himself visiting Mike after work on a semi-regular basis. Mike understood – a lawyer was busy – and Harvey warned himself against becoming too complacent. The fight tonight was just a reminder that people like Harvey weren't meant to have long lasting relationships with people like Mike.

"That's not true," Harvey tried to console with a calm voice. "I just-"

"Hide. That's what you do, Harvey, you hide from everybody! From the patrons and performers at the Gallery, from Trevor – who's starting to believe you don't exist, by the way, and from me too. I told you I wanted to know you, and you said you'd tell me someday, but it's been months, Harvey! Months, and you barely tell me anything!" Mike threw a pillow he'd been moving when the argument started back into place on the couch.

"I tell you what I can," Harvey said.

It was true, Harvey didn't reveal much, but he'd told Mike about his brother... just not that said brother had died about a century ago, and about his parents... just not that they were the reason Harvey was the way he was, and about his job as a lawyer. He'd expressed to Mike his love of music, more than just jazz although jazz was his favorite, and his preference for rare steaks and Hispanic cuisine, although he only barely explained that it was because they put enough spices and flavors into their food for Harvey to actually taste and enjoy it.

"But you're still hiding from me," Mike countered. "You're hiding some secret, or hell a lifetime of secrets, from me. What? Are you married? Does your wife not know you swing my way? Or maybe it's your clients. You don't want them to know about me so we can't be seen in public together?"

He was tossing his arms out in wild gestures, and his heart raced under emotional stress, and his bright eyes were sad, and Harvey couldn't stand it. The lawyer grabbed Mike's arms to still them and pulled himself as close as Mike would allow him to be.

"No," he said sternly. "No, Mike. It's not any of those things. It's nothing you're imagining. I promise, you don't... you don't want to know. And I do want to go places with you," he continued quickly when Mike's tender mouth opened to argue. "The movies, a museum, to dinner, to a fair, wherever it is you want to go. It's just that I can't. It's... It's too early to go out."

The sun was peeking through the shades on Mike's apartment windows, and Harvey was intensely aware of the time of day.

Mike shook him off with a scoff and Harvey let him. "What are you? A vampire?"

He turned from Harvey then and went to the kitchen, leaving Harvey stunned and aching behind him. Vampire. The disgust in Mike's voice was palpable and Harvey felt his instincts pulling at him. _Kill him_, they urged. _Drain him now before he gets any closer_. Or any farther, he added. Blood sucker. Monster. Vampire.

Harvey stepped quietly up behind Mike, too quietly he realized when he reached his arms around Mike and the other jumped in surprise. He leaned his face down to Mike's neck and took a slow breath. Mike's heart, which had been racing with anger, was surprisingly calm under the attention, and his head was tilted away instead of closer to block Harvey's access.

"And if I was," Harvey murmured against the skin. "then what would you do? Then would you understand? Would you-?"

"Do it," Mike said in a voice almost too quiet to hear.

Harvey raised his gaze and saw Mike's eyes were closed. "Mike?" he asked cautiously.

"If you were a vampire, you'd do it," the musician declared. "You wouldn't be able to resist forever. That's what made Dracula so terrible, what made all of them so terrifying. They look and act like well mannered people, like trustworthy people, and then they give in to their bloodlust and kill people." He turned in Harvey's arms until they were face to face, his eyes still angry and hurt. "So if you're such a monster, then do it. End it now."

Harvey's gut twisted. Mike, again, didn't understand what he was doing – offering himself up like that. Harvey's eyes flickered to Mike's jugular, to the hard flow of blood pounding just beneath the surface. It would be easy to suck the blood quickly from there, to end Mike's danger, his life, in a matter of a few short minutes. And Mike was offering it to him.

He leaned forward, chest aching with so many things he desired, and kissed Mike. He held the other's head firmly in place and pressed their lips together hard... because he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill Mike, not like this... not ever. That siren blood was his weakness but Mike was some kind of anchor. Mike's bite may not be lethal, but it was sharp, and Harvey loved it. He wanted that bite... but he couldn't have it. Not anymore.

"I would never," he whispered against Mike's lips, staring at Mike's closed eyelids.

"Why not?" Mike whispered back just as quietly.

Because of the music, because of the way Mike looked when he played on stage, because of the feel of Mike's body against his, because of Mike's hands on him, because of Mike's lonely eyes, because Mike liked waffles hidden under blueberries, because Mike showered with the door open, because Mike could remember everything he'd ever read and quote it back to you, because Mike's only friend was a never there drug dealer and he needed someone more trustworthy and dependable in his life, because he wanted to be that person for Mike, because he wanted to be a person at all and Mike made him feel like that, , because...

"Because I love you," he said, and it broke something within him to say it out loud, to finally put to words why he kept coming back and trying to make this relationship work when he knew to his core that it could never survive time.

"What?" Mike's words were a gasp, but Harvey had already pulled away, was already pulling on his gloves and walking out the door when Mike opened his eyes. "Wait- Harvey-"

"You're right," Harvey said to cut him off, turning back to look at Mike still in the kitchen. His hand met the door handle. "A vampire would end it." The word tasted sour in his mouth. "Or he'd at least try to."

He shut the door behind himself, and by the time Mike ripped it open again, Harvey wasn't even in the building. He was far away from the temptation and the comfort and all of it. He didn't stop moving until he was far enough away that he couldn't smell that brilliant jazz blood.

Jazz blood. Jazz blood. Musical blood. Harvey had found the source of the voice and, with it, the intense scent of his desired siren blood. This body was propped up in the mouth of the alley and still so full of blood – so much delicious blood. He could see all the veins, see the strong pumping heart. Caution made him wonder why his prey wasn't running if he still had so much life in him, but another sniff brought his eyes to a head wound.

He gripped the head, turning it so he could get a better look, and pressed his nose into the blood around the actual wound. So- So intoxicating, so intense, so... nauseating. A hand gripped his left hand, which was touching the body's chin, and he flinched. Pulling back to look down, he growled... until he saw bright blue eyes staring at him.

"Harvey-"

Mike.

It meant something – that name and those eyes, and the sound of that broken voice made him want to remember why, but there was blood everywhere and that siren blood was there, on his nose and making him dizzy with desire.

"You- You didn't come back," Mike murmured, staring into Harvey's possessed, bloodthirsty eyes. "To the apartment. To the club."

Harvey snorted, trying to get the smell of so many different kinds of blood out of his nose so he could focus, but even trying to wipe it away only made it worse, only spread the blood from his hand over his face.

"And I didn't know where you lived," Mike panted, pressing his other hand to his chest.

Harvey's eyes followed the hand and heard the first sign of distress from the heart. Harvey's hand was there, on Mike's chest, under Mike's hand, and it was gripping tightly, nails almost puncturing the skin.

"H-Harvey," Mike pleaded. The creature, because he felt far less a man than an animal, snapped his eyes back to Mike's, his grip slackening slightly. "I know-... I know you're in there. I know because... I knew before. What you were."

Harvey's eyes narrowed, his brow creasing, and he growled, because Mike hadn't known. Mike hadn't known or he wouldn't have taunted Harvey the way he had. Mike hadn't known or he wouldn't still be here. This wasn't his siren blood, his jazz blood. It smelled so real, but it must be a fake.

"You tried to tell me." Mike paused to groan, holding his head. "And I called you out on it... and you didn't lie to me. You left... I tried to- to find you."

"Vampire," Harvey spat, finding his voice. He wanted to pierce the skin, bring blood to the surface, drink until there was nothing left, and leave the body for the wolves or the urban wild dogs or the rats, he didn't care. He just wanted the blood.

But Mike was shaking his head. "Harvey," he corrected. "And then Trevor-"

Mike flinched when Harvey hissed, baring his teeth and looking around the alley. Danger, he thought. Danger. There was an enemy, and he had to kill it, had to feed on it, had to protect-... protect?

Hands touched his face and now it was his turn to flinch. "It's okay," Mike assured quickly. "It's okay. You- You killed them." A heavy swallow and now Harvey's attention was back on Mike's throat. "Not... Not _him_. He left after the first blow landed, but you saved me. Harvey, you saved me."

Adrenaline was still pumping through Mike's veins and Harvey could smell it sweetening the blood. He smiled sadistically and nodded toward Mike's chest, where his heart was racing more with every passing moment. Sweet words, Harvey thought, but the truth was clear. The truth was-

"Yeah, I'm terrified," Mike admitted, swallowing again and breathing shallow. "Harvey, you look- you're covered in blood and I just watched you rip two men apart and then eat them and your eyes, they don't look like your eyes, and you aren't talking. It's fucking terrifying."

Something in Harvey's gut pulled at him, an instinct beyond the one telling him to hunt and feed, an instinct struggling for dominance. But Harvey was still hungry. He hadn't given in to his hunger in so long, hadn't truly fed in months or was it decades? and he was so close to that imitation siren blood. He shook his head to clear away the struggling instinct.

"But-ah!" Mike gasped as Harvey pushed his head to the side, exposing his clear, clean throat.

The blood was begging him to take it, to taste it, just a little bit – or all of it. And the adrenaline in Mike's veins was fueled by fear, which was less preferable to the adrenaline caused by desire, but it would be sweet all the same. And Harvey had waited such a long time for this. It was like a good red wine, aged to perfection, and he was finally ready to uncork it and let the wine flow.

"Just do it," Mike whined and Harvey pulled back with a confused huff. Mike's eyes were shut tight and the sunlight was starting to make a line across the mouth of the alley, catching in the top of Mike's hair. "The sun's coming up, and you're not in your layers. And I don't know why you can't control it anymore – maybe it's my fault – but you can't be out here anymore cause the sun... and you can't be here when the police are called, cause I won't let you take the fall for this, and anyway, I know you've been wanting to do it since the day we met so just... just do it."

With pleasure, Harvey thought even with the new instinct ripping at his chest. He brushed his cold fingers across Mike's throat, eliciting a shiver, then he leaned forward, fangs salivating, and sank his teeth into Mike's warm skin.

A soft, surprised gasp escaped Mike's throat, his eyes opening, and then he moaned, tense body going slack in Harvey's grip. The blood hit Harvey's tongue and he clamped his eyes shut. It was blooming with every scent and taste Harvey had ever expected Mike's blood to have – wood and fruit and something extra, something that made it taste the way jazz made Harvey feel. Jazz blood – no wonder he'd always called it that. This was dim rooms and bright stages and soul and upbeat tempos that made you want to dance and sunlit corners for sitting in and dark shadowed corners for sneaking kisses in and Mike-

"Mike-!" Harvey gasped, pulled back and forced his fangs to retract. Color bled back into the world and he found his nearly dead heart pumping wildly. He could still taste that rich, fantastic blood in his mouth and it made him want to throw up, knowing what he'd done, what he'd given in to.

In his arms, Mike was still slack, and Harvey couldn't recall how much he'd drank before coming to his senses. Panic overcame him.

"No. No, Mike. Look at me. Snap out of it!" he ordered and shook the musician's body.

He tried to listen for Mike's heartbeat, for the flow of blood, but Mike's blood was flowing and singing in his own veins, drowning out any sound of Mike's still remaining bodily functions. He grabbed Mike's head with one hand and turned his calm face up, but there was no reaction.

"Mike," he snapped. "Damn it!"

Had he killed him? Had he killed Mike? With the rush of blood insanity gone, he remembered everything – remembered going out for a walk that night to clear his head, as he often did when he craved Mike's company in the month since he'd broken it off. His records at home hadn't been enough to calm him, so he'd been out under the moon, searching for a willing target, and that's when he'd caught Mike's scent. Turning around had been his first instinct, avoid and retreat, but then he'd caught the sounds of argument and the smell of trash that sometimes lingered in Mike's apartment. That was Trevor's scent.

Worry and anger had urged him forward until he'd come upon the scene – two men and Mike, no sign of Trevor. One of the men held a bat and Mike was wavering where he stood, leaning against the wall, and there was blood. When they'd raised the bat for a second blow, Harvey had flown into action. He'd been so careful not to use too much strength, but then one of the men cut himself on a piece of fence in the nearby garbage, and when he'd struck out at Harvey, the blood got on Harvey's face, so close that it blocked out other scents... and it had all gone downhill from there.

In retrospect, he could vaguely recall hearing Mike calling for him to stop, but his instincts to hunt had mixed with those new instincts to protect Mike and there had been no option for stopping. Not even when it had been only Mike remaining. And now-

"Mike." Harvey pressed the cloth of Mike's shirt over the holes in Mike's neck, a small hope in him from the fact that they were still leaking blood. When he still got no response, he shut his eyes and pressed his lips to Mike's still warm ones. There was still life in him. He was still-

A groan erupted in Mike's throat and Harvey pulled back to search for his eyes. The serene paralysis caused by Harvey's bite was wearing off and it left Mike staring up at Harvey in a dazed state.

"Harvey?" He groaned again, groggy.

"Mike." Harvey felt breathless, which was silly since he was typically breathless anyway. "I'm sorry."

"You're back to normal." Mike reached one hand up with great effort and wiped at the blood on Harvey's face. "Thank God."

"God had nothing to do with it. What kind of an idiot- You don't just offer yourself to be killed, Mike!" Harvey scolded, shaking the younger man again.

A lazy shrug interrupted by a flinch and sudden stop was Mike response. "You were crazed, and I knew... I remembered how you never went for my neck after our first time, but you always liked to sniff me there, and suddenly it all, I don't know. It made sense. You were hungry and you've been holding back this whole time. I thought maybe... if you got what you've been craving the whole time, maybe you'd go back to being you."

"Let's get a few things straight Mike – if a blood thirsty vampire is after you, you chain him up until he gets over it. You don't bare your neck and dare him twice to take a bite. And when I first met you, I had the full intention of biting you then, yes, but now, Mike, I-"

"Love me?" Mike prompted, smiled.

Harvey sat, speechless, wondering how quickly he could make it out of the alley and back to his condo, but he didn't want to run from Mike. He just wanted Mike to be okay, just wanted to pretend he didn't have this blood lust that made him almost kill Mike. Before him, Mike just smiled with his bright blue eyes and waited for him.

Relief hit him hard and he dropped his head onto Mike's shoulder, and even the smell of Mike's blood so close could not distract him now. Mike was okay. He was alive. And he wasn't screaming or running, even though he'd admitted that Harvey terrified him. He was still here.

"I do," he murmured. "Christ. I do love you. I'm sorry. I told you I'd never do that, and then I turned around and did it anyway. I can't even lie and say I didn't enjoy it. I'm sorry."

Mike's hand was in his hair, pulling gently at the strands. "It's okay, Harvey. It's alright. You didn't kill me... And I be lying if I said I didn't enjoy it either."

"We both have a thing for necks," Harvey said jokingly, not raising his head. When someone like Harvey bite someone else, a type of euphoria did accompany it – that's what kept them from screaming – but Mike had actually moaned.

"So will I become a vampire now?" Mike pressed gently against his neck, moving Harvey's head out of the way.

With a shake of his head, Harvey let out a happy sigh. "No. To become what I am, there's more to it than that. Also, we don't like the term vampire. Haven't come up with a better name, but we still don't like it. Too much stigmatism."

"Are there others like you?"

Harvey stood up and helped Mike to his feet. The musician wobbled slightly but eventually got his footing. "I used to know a few. We don't usually live in the same places... It becomes noticeable."

"Sounds lonely." Mike frowned and slipped his hand into Harvey's.

"It can be. But so can human life." And Harvey gave a pointed look to Mike, recalling how little human interaction the other had even before Harvey came into his life.

"Yeah." It was still odd for Harvey, seeing how easy it was for Mike to be near him, to touch him, after what he'd just seen. As if knowing his thoughts, Mike squeezed his hand tightly. "Harvey... I knew, or at least I thought I knew... who and what you were... and I said some terrible things. I'm sorry too. Can we start again? Cause I'd like to try getting to know what it means to be you, so that maybe we could do this dating thing right."

"You're scared of me," Harvey reminded, and he would have tried to pull away if Mike's grip wasn't so tight. He must've know Harvey could pull away if he wanted too, but he must've also known Harvey wouldn't for fear of hurting him.

"Yeah. Hell yeah. But only when your eyes are black and you can't hear me. And if we work together, I think we can keep that from happening again. You're always in control. I've seen it. And if you ever lose it, I'll help you get it back." At that, Mike tilted his head away to show the two puncture marks in his neck, and Harvey clamped Mike's hand back down over them, scrunching his face up in disgust.

"Please don't," he grunted.

"Shut up, Harvey. You're not going to scare me off, not today. Just... take me home, cause I'm exhausted." And he leaned heavily against Harvey, his scent pure and alive in Harvey's nose.

"Blood loss will do that to you," Harvey grunted but looked around for a way to get home without hitting too much sun anyway.

"Harvey," Mike scolded. When Harvey focused his attention back on Mike, the musician captured his lips in a kiss, pushing any doubt about how much this revelation didn't affect Mike's feelings for him out the window.

Trying not to smile made him pout, but Mike laughed softly anyway. For revenge, Harvey lifted Mike into his arms like a new bride and shook his head. "Lean in to me. I don't want you getting whip lash."

"What?" Mike asked and Harvey stared down at him blankly.

"Whiiiip Laaaash," he said slowly, as though Mike were hard of hearing, then he started running through the alleys, avoiding major streets when at all possible, until he found himself back in front of a grand looking condo high rise. He was no x-man, but he could run pretty fast, and he made it into an empty closing elevator before even the footman could take notice of the two of them and the state of their clothes.

Mike was dizzy from the speed. They were halfway up the elevator before Mike's equilibrium settled. "Where are we?" he asked.

"You said," Harvey muttered, "that you didn't know where I lived."

The elevator binged open and Harvey led Mike down a short hallway before they arrived at his door. Inside, Mike took a minute to gape openly at the full twenty-first century style of the place – no ancient murals or coffins anywhere in sight, and one of the many windows was even open so sunlight could make it through.

A shift in Mike's scent made Harvey grin but when Mike looked back at him, Harvey shook his head.

"You're in no state for those kinds of thoughts, Mike. We're changing our clothes, taking showers, and then resting. You need time for your blood to refresh."

"Well you're no fun," Mike whined, but let himself be directed to the bathroom anyway.

Showers turned into shower, singular, but Harvey still didn't let Mike get too worked up – a rush of adrenaline was the last thing Mike needed, but maybe tomorrow. And with that promise, Mike laid down in Harvey's bed, curled up against Harvey, and relaxed until he drifted to sleep. Harvey bit his own lip, going over every memory of the crime scene. There would be no traceable evidence to himself or Mike, and it would be impossible to go back and clean it up before someone saw. His only real worry, though, was Trevor... but something told him Trevor was more coward than fighter, so he wouldn't be too much of an issue.

Mike shifted in his sleep and Harvey wrapped his arm around him. He'd been alive for a century before finding the Jazz Gallery, even longer before finding Mike... and he wondered how long he'd be able to keep Mike, how long until he had to either turn Mike or part from him forever. And part of him wondered if Mike was only with him now because of the hope of becoming what Harvey was.

But then Mike rolled over to face him and from his lips came a soft "I love you too," and Harvey felt himself relax in a way he hadn't done in decades. Everything was dim in the room, muted sunlight peaking around curtains, and all he could think about was Mike. Somewhere out there, he had a meeting today and Mike had a practice room on hold to spend some time with his saxophone, but here in this room, in this moment, Harvey didn't care. Mike had almost died at the hands of drug dealers – it didn't matter why – and then again at Harvey's hands, but he was still alive. They were both still alive.

Harvey pressed a kiss to Mike's forehead and settled heavily on the pillows. He'd have been happy to stay in this condo forever, just he and his records, Mike and his saxophone – the two of them and jazz.


End file.
